Imtiaz Dharker

The place is full of worshippers.
You can tell by the sandals
piled outside, the owners' prints
worn into leather, rubber, plastic,
a picture clearer than their faces
put together, with some originality,
brows and eyes, the slant
of cheek to chin.
What prayer are they whispering?
Each one has left a mark,
the perfect pattern of a need,
sole and heel and toe
in dark, curved patches,
heels worn down,
thongs ragged, mended many times.
So many shuffling hopes,
pounded into print,
as clear as the pages of holy books,
illuminated with the glint
of gold around the lettering.
What are they whispering?
Outside, in the sun,
such a quiet crowd
of shoes, thrown together
like a thousand prayers
washing against the walls of God.
...

We are waving to you from up here,
from the fourth floor to say
don't worry about us, we are fine.
We may be strung out, trousers vest blouse
sari skirt on this washing line
but the sun is being kind to us.
Better here than down there
where you are passing
on the Number 106, crammed
into a hot window frame
with your loud loneliness.

We are floating here,
our hearts filled with soft evening air
and the sound of conversations
in the rooms behind us,
in love with the shape
of each other and the dance
we make together,

waving to you, sending a sign
that you would see if
you were looking but

you are not.
...

Purdah I
One day they said she was old enough to learn some shame.
She found it came quite naturally.
Purdah is a kind of safety.
The body finds a place to hide.
The cloth fans out against the skin
much like the earth falls
on coffins after they put the dead men in.
People she has known
stand up, sit down as they have always done.
But they make different angles
in the light, their eyes aslant,
a little sly.
She half-remembers things
from someone else's life,
Perhaps from yours, or mine -
carefully carrying what we do not own:
between the thighs, a sense of sin.
We sit still, letting the cloth grow
a little closer to our skin.
A light filters inward
through our bodies' walls.
Voices speak inside us,
echoing in the spaces we have just left.
She stands outside herself,
sometimes in all four corners of a room.
Wherever she goes, she is always
inching past herself,
as if she were a clod of earth
and the roots as well,
scratching for a hold
between the first and second rib.
Passing constantly out of her own hands
into the corner of someone else's eyes…
while doors keep opening
inward and again
inward.
Purdah II
The call breaks its back
across the tenements: ‘Allah-u-Akbar'.
Your mind throws black shadows
on marble cooled by centuries of dead.
A familiar script racks the walls.
The pages of the Koran
turn, smooth as old bones
in your prodigal hands.
In the tin box of your memory
a coin of comfort rattles
against the strangeness of a foreign land.
* * *
Years of sun were concentrated
into Maulvi's fat dark finger
hustling across the page,
nudging words into your head;
words unsoiled by sense,
pure rhythm on the tongue.
The body, rocked in time
with twenty others, was lulled
into thinking it had found a home.
* * *
The new Hajji, just fifteen,
had cheeks quite pink with knowledge
and eyes a startling blue.
He snapped a flower off his garland
and looked to you.
There was nothing holy in his look.
Hands that had prayed at Mecca
dropped a sly flower on your book.
You had been chosen.
Your dreams were full of him for days.
Making pilgrimages to his cheeks,
You were scorched,
long before the judgement,
by the blaze.
Your breasts, still tiny, grew an inch.
The cracked voice calls again.
A change of place and time.
Much of the colour drains away.
The brightest shades are in your dreams,
A picture-book, a strip of film.
The rest forget to sing.
Evelyn, the medium from Brighton,
said, ‘I see you quite different in my head,
not dressed in this cold blue.
I see your mother bringing you
a stretch of brilliant fabric, red.
Yes, crimson red, patterned through
with golden thread.'
There she goes, your mother,
still plotting at your wedding
long after she is dead.
* * *
They have all been sold and bought,
the girls I knew,
unwilling virgins who had been taught,
especially in this strangers' land, to bind
their brightness tightly round,
whatever they might wear,
in the purdah of the mind.
They veiled their eyes
with heavy lids.
They hid their breasts,
but not the fullness of their lips.
* * *
The men you knew
were in your history, striding proud
with heavy feet across a fertile land.
A horde of dead men
held up your head,
above the mean temptations
of those alien hands.
You answered to your race.
Night after virtuous night
you performed for them.
They warmed your bed.
* * *
A coin of comfort in the mosque
clatters down the years of loss
* * *
You never met those men
with burnt-out eyes, blood
dripping from their beards.
You remember the sun
pouring out of Maulvi's hands.
It was to save the child
the lamb was sacrificed;
to save the man,
the scourge and stones. God was justice.
Justice could be dread.
But woman. Woman,
you have learnt
that when God comes
you hide your head.
* * *
There are so many of me.
I have met them, meet them every day,
recognise their shadows on the streets.
I know their past and future
in cautious way they place their feet.
I can see behind their veils,
and before they speak
I know their tongues, thick
with the burr of Birmingham
or Leeds.
* * *
Break cover.
Break cover and let the girls with tell-tale lips.
We'll blindfold the spies. Tell me
what you did when the new moon
sliced you out of purdah,
your body shimmering through the lies.
* * *
Saleema of the swan neck
and tragic eyes, knew from films
that the heroine was always pure,
untouched; nevertheless
poured out her breasts to fill the cup
of his white hands
(the mad old artist with the pigeon chest)
and marveled at her own strange wickedness.
* * *
Bought and sold, and worse,
grown old. She married back home,
as good girls do,
in a flurry of red the cousin -
hers or mine, I cannot know -
had annual babies, then rebelled at last.
At last a sign, behind the veil,
of life;
found another man, became another wife,
and sank into the mould
of her mother's flesh
and mind, begging approval from the rest.
Her neck is bowed as if she wears a hood.
Eyes still tragic, when you meet her
on the high street,
and watchful as any creature
that lifts its head and sniffs the air
only to scent its own small trail of blood.
* * *
Naseem, you ran away
and your mother burned with shame.
Whatever we did,
the trail was the same:
the tear-stained mother, the gossip aunts
looking for shoots to smother
inside all our cracks.
The table is laden
and you are remembered
among the dead. No going back.
The prayer's said.
And there you are with your English boy
who was going to set you free,
trying to smile and be accepted,
always on your knees.
* * *
There you are, I can see you all now
in the tenements up north.
In or out of purdah. Tied, or bound.
Shaking your box to hear
how freedom rattles…
one coin, one sound.
...

The school-bell is a call to battle,
every step to class, a step into the firing-line.
Here is the target, fine skin at the temple,
cheek still rounded from being fifteen.

Surrendered, surrounded, she
takes the bullet in the head

and walks on. The missile cuts
a pathway in her mind, to an orchard
in full bloom, a field humming under the sun,
its lap open and full of poppies.

This girl has won
the right to be ordinary,

wear bangles to a wedding, paint her fingernails,
go to school. Bullet, she says, you are stupid.
You have failed. You cannot kill a book
or the buzzing in it.

A murmur, a swarm. Behind her, one by one,
the schoolgirls are standing up
to take their places on the front line.
...

When I can't comprehend
why they're burning books
or slashing paintings,
...

Paper that lets the light
shine through, this
is what could alter things.
Paper thinned by age or touching,
the kind you find in well-used books,
the back of the Koran, where a hand
has written in the names and histories,
who was born to whom,
the height and weight, who
died where and how, on which sepia date,
pages smoothed and stroked and turned
transparent with attention.
If buildings were paper, I might
feel their drift, see how easily
they fall away on a sigh, a shift
in the direction of the wind.
Maps too. The sun shines through
their borderlines, the marks
that rivers make, roads,
railtracks, mountainfolds,
Fine slips from grocery shops
that say how much was sold
and what was paid by credit card
might fly our lives like paper kites.
An architect could use all this,
place layer over layer, luminous
script over numbers over line,
and never wish to build again with brick
or block, but let the daylight break
through capitals and monoliths,
through the shapes that pride can make,
find a way to trace a grand design
with living tissue, raise a structure
never meant to last,
of paper smoothed and stroked
and thinned to be transparent,
turned into your skin.
...

All the people are wearing black.
Coming out of stations, scrambling
on buses, crossing the street, stacked
on escalators
they look like letters running away
from words I am struggling to understand.
There is no way to fix them
blurred as they are by movement,
mirrors and cracked glass.
I am trying to write you down
on this white space
in longhand, calm
you, still you,
put my arms around you,
touch your face, trace
the cheekbone,
hold you long enough
for you to read
the words we have been assembling
...

The skin cracks like a pod.
There never is enough water.

Imagine the drip of it,
the small splash, echo
in a tin mug,
the voice of a kindly god.

Sometimes, the sudden rush
of fortune. The municipal pipe bursts,
silver crashes to the ground
and the flow has found
a roar of tongues. From the huts,
a congregation: every man woman
child for streets around
butts in, with pots,
brass, copper, aluminium,
plastic buckets,
frantic hands,

and naked children
screaming in the liquid sun,
their highlights polished to perfection,
flashing light,
as the blessing sings
over their small bones.
...

Die Haut platzt auf wie eine Hülse.
Nie gibt es genug Wasser.

Stell dir sein Tröpfeln vor,
den kleinen Spritzer, Echo
im blechernen Becher,
die Stimme eines sanften Gottes.

Manchmal ein plötzlicher Anrausch
von Glück. Die städtische Leitung birst,
Silber stürzt zu Boden
und das Strömen lodert
als Tosen von Zungen. Aus allen Hütten
eine Gemeinde: jeder Mann jede Frau
jedes Kind, eingebogen,
läuft hinzu, mit Töpfen,
Messing, Kupfer, Aluminium,
Eimern aus Plastik,
Hände, hektisch,

und nackte Kinder
kreischen in flüssiger Sonne
ihr Glänzen poliert zur Perfektion,
blitzende Lichter,
als der Segen singt
über ihre kleinen Knochen.

aus dem Englischen von Uljana Wolf
...

If I were a house
shored up like this
with ancient scaffolding
the threat of bars for windows,
damp roof and door of tin,

would you take the time
to walk into my face,
to move from room to room
and find the quiet space
where I begin?

Would you be tempted
to come in?
...

Wär ich ein Haus,
gestützt wie dieses
durch uraltes Gerüst,
das Fenster eine Gitterdrohung,
feuchtes Dach und Tür aus Blech,

würdest du innehalten,
durch mein Gesicht treten,
von Raum zu Raum gehen
und den ruhigen Ort finden
an dem ich beginne?

Wärst du versucht,
hineinzukommen?

aus dem Englischen von Uljana Wolf
...

There are just not enough
straight lines. That
is the problem.
Nothing is flat
or parallel. Beams
balance crookedly on supports
thrust off the vertical.
Nails clutch at open seams.
The whole structure leans dangerously
towards the miraculous.

Into this rough frame,
someone has squeezed
a living space

and even dared to place
these eggs in a wire basket,
fragile curves of white
hung out over the dark edge
of a slanted universe,
gathering the light
into themselves,
as if they were
the bright, thin walls of faith.
...

Es gibt einfach nicht genug
gerade Linien. Das
ist das Problem.
Nichts ist flach
oder parallel. Balken
hangeln schräg auf Stützen,
die aus Vertikalen ragen.
Nägel klammern sich an offene Spalte.
Die ganze Struktur kippelt gefährlich
Richtung Wunder.

In diesen rauen Rahmen
zwängte jemand
seinen Lebensort

und traute sich sogar, diese Eier
in einen Korb aus Draht zu legen,
weiße, zerbrechliche Rundungen
baumelnd am dunklen Rand
eines schiefen Universums,
die das Licht sammeln
in sich selbst,
als wären sie
die hellen, dünnen Mauern des Glaubens.

aus dem Englischen von Uljana Wolf
...

All it would take
is one slammed door
to make the whole thing
fall. Once bottle hurled
against a wall,
to start the hammering
on the heart
and crack
the body's shell.
One sneeze, one cough,
one doubt.

All it would take
is one breath,
no more.
...

Es genügte schon
eine zugeschlagene Tür
und alles würde in sich
zusammenfallen. Eine Flasche,
gegen die Wand geworfen,
und das Herz
würde hämmern,
die Körperschale
zerbrechen.
Ein Niesen, ein Husten,
ein Zweifel.

Es genügte schon
ein Atemzug,
nicht mehr.

aus dem Englischen von Uljana Wolf
...

The egg may be
about to hatch
thresholds, windows, floors,
shutters, tiles, a room,
A tulsi plant in a Dalda tin,
mirchi and lemon over the door
to protect the children
fathers mothers brothers two-in-ones.
Stacked one upon the other,
back to back,
tacked on sideways. A place
not private, though it pretends
to walls and bolts;
but battered, cracked
so all the lives show through
the boards and beams
that might as well
be paper, glass.

At last. The promise
of the imperfect shell.
...

Vielleicht ist das Ei
bereit für den Schlupf:
Schwellen, Böden, Fenster,
Fliesen, Jalousien, ein Zimmer,
Tulsibusch in einer Dose Dalda-Öl,
Chili und Zitrone über der Tür
zum Schutz für die Kinder
Väter Mütter Brüder Zwei-als-Eins.
Übereinandergesteckt,
Rücken an Rücken,
seitlich angedockt. Ein Ort,
nicht privat, obwohl er es vorgibt
mit Wänden, mit Riegeln;
doch ramponiert, mit Rissen
so dass das Leben dringt
durch Bretter und Balken
als wären sie aus Papier,
aus Glas.

Endlich. Das Versprechen
der unvollkommenen Schale.

aus dem Englischen von Uljana Wolf
...

Impossible to hold,
you have to cradle it,
let it slide against your cheek.

If this could speak,
this eggplant,
it would have the voice
of a plump child-god,
purple-blue and sleek
with happiness,
full of milk,
ready to sleep.
...

Unmöglich, sie zu halten,
man muss sie wiegen,
an die eigene Wange schmiegen.

Könnte sie sprechen,
diese Aubergine,
dann mit der Stimme
eines pummeligen Kindergotts,
purpurblau und seidenglatt
vor Glück,
voller Milch,
kurz vorm Schlummern.

aus dem Englischen von Uljana Wolf
...

Hand shaking on the stop-cock, she looks
at the X, the warning cross,

the water-tap unlocked, its padlock cracked.
Breath hacks in the throat, Check your back.

Turn it on and an anxious mutter swells
to thunder in the plastic bucket. Don't spill it.

Fill it to the top. Lift to the hip, stop,
balance the weight for the dangerous walk

home. Home.
Don't lose a drop.

From the police chowki across the track
a whistle, a shout. Run. Don't stop. Don't slip.

A drag at the hip. Hot, hot underfoot. Water slops
up and out in every direction, over the lip,

over her legs, a shock of cool, a spark of light.
With her stolen piece of sky, she has taken flight.

Behind her, the shouters give up. She puts down
the bucket. The water stills.

She looks into it, looks up to where the blue
is scarred with aimless tracks.

Jet-trails cross each other off
before they die out, a careless X.
...